


Molt

by theladyscribe



Series: Icarus [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Pittsburgh Penguins, Wingfic, seemingly unrequited crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9942068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Mats once joked that they could stuff an entire mattress with Carl's shedded feathers; the worst part about the joke is that it's true.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Pens Monthly February 2017 prompt of "wingfic."

Carl starts to molt halfway through the playoffs. It happens every year, during the second round, though his wings start to itch long before that.

He isn't the only player who molts in late spring — Patric and Geno are both starting to look a little raggedy — but Carl's molt is particularly dramatic if for no other reason than the sheer volume of feathers he sheds. Mats once joked that they could stuff an entire mattress with Carl's shedded feathers; the worst part about the joke is that it's true.

Once the feathers start dropping, Carl leaves a trail of them in his wake. It starts out lightly, but he eventually has to bag his wings under their harness just to keep from covering the ice in black-and-white feathers. It's more annoyance than anything else, the price Carl pays for making it past the first round of the playoffs every year of his NHL career.

The worst part is the constant need for maintenance. He has to comb through his feathers at least once a day as it is to keep them orderly and free of mites. During molt, he spends a lot of his downtime brushing his wings, combing out loose feathers and making sure the downy new ones lie smooth.

Despite his complaints, Carl generally finds the ritual of molting season soothing. There's a certain meditation in the methodical combing and inspection of his wings. It gives him space to find his equilibrium in what is usually the most chaotic part of his year.

*

By the time they get to the semi-final, Carl's molt is full-blown. He has to keep his wings bagged any time he wants to go anywhere, and he itches constantly. The heat and humidity of early summer don't help, making him irritable and restless. He wishes he could take off, catch a thermal that would take him high above the water, but his wings are in no state for flight right now.

He gets an entire row to himself on the airplane to Tampa, space to spread his wings and a spare gear bag to stuff feathers in a vain attempt to keep them from overtaking the plane. Patric laughs at him and Geno tries to fine him until Sid points out that Geno's brown-and-yellow feathers are starting to shed as well, but Phil is the one who sits down beside him and says, "Let me help."

Carl eyes him. "You know how to preen someone's feathers?"

"Amanda and Blake both have wings," Phil answers. "I know what I'm doing."

Carl stares at him for a moment longer, trying to decipher whether the furrow in Phil's brow means anything or is just his resting bitch face. Phil stares back, inscrutable, a hand held out for the shampooing oil.

"Well?" Phil says. Resting bitch face it is, then. Carl hands him the bottle and turns as best he can in the tight quarters of the airplane.

"Start with the right," he tells Phil. "Near the top of the blade."

Phil obeys, his hand landing gently on the upper outside curve of Carl's wing, at the join of his scapulars and marginal coverts. He works his way across the marginals to the primaries, firm but gentle as he massages under Carl's feathers. Phil is good at this; he clearly knows not to move vertically, and he avoids Carl's alula when he reaches it.

Carl zones out, the hum of the airplane and the pressure of Phil's fingers the only things he notices. Jessica, the team's ortho specialist, has given him massages occasionally, but hers are always highly professional and efficient. Phil seems to take his time. Carl ignores the little voice that sounds too much like Bobbie that says it's because he _likes_ Phil.

He's half asleep when Phil taps his shoulder and says, "Hey, we've landed. I can do the other side when we get to the hotel."

Carl nods, folding his wings so they can disembark.

Patric catches him as he heads toward the bus. " _Have a good flight_?" he asks, too casual to be anything less than teasing.

" _Yes_ ," Carl answers. " _It's always a good flight when you're on the other end of the plane_." He grins sunnily at Patric, who cheeses back.

"Hey! No Swedish!" Geno pushes between the two of them, smacking both of them with his wings. "You know rules. It's English or fifty bucks!"

"Says the man who cusses everybody out in Russian!" Patric laughs, getting himself into a tussle that successfully distracts both of them long enough that Carl can escape to the bus.

*

Most of the team heads for the beach as soon as they get checked into their hotel. Carl figures Phil has gone with them, so he cranks up the air conditioning and strips down to his boxers, planning to nap. He's gotten himself angled on the bed so the breeze from the air conditioner ruffles his feathers just right when someone knocks on the door.

Carl sighs and gets up to answer, figuring it's Patric come to drag him to the pool even though he knows very well that molting and chlorinated pools really don't mix.

It's not Patric. It's Phil.

"Hey," Carl says. "I thought you were headed out with Bones and Fehrsy."

Phil shrugs. "I said I'd finish when we got here. I can go if you'd rather sleep, though."

He starts to leave, but Carl grabs his wrist. "Do you really want to or are you just looking for an excuse to avoid the beach?"

Phil chuckles at that. "A little of both," he admits.

Carl smiles back. "Okay then." He steps aside to let Phil in the room. He stumbles, and Carl realizes he's still holding Phil's wrist. He lets go, hoping that Phil doesn't notice him flushing.

"How do you—" Phil stops and starts again. "Where should I sit?"

Carl casts a glance around the room. There aren't a lot of options. "The bed is fine."

They get settled on the bed and Carl tilts so Phil can reach his left wing. It's quiet at first, but the silence stretches between them, becoming more awkward with every creak of the bed.

"You're good at this," Carl says when the silence has become unbearable.

"I used to help Amanda and Blake with theirs," Phil says as he works over Carl's primaries. "Big brother duty."

"Mmm. They trained you well. Bobbie always got bored and abandoned me halfway through. Amanda and Blake don't know how good they have it."

Phil laughs. "I'll tell Mandy that the next time we argue."

"I'll back you up," Carl promises.

"Thanks."

They lapse into silence again, but it's no longer strained. Carl feels like he could melt into the floor. He's nearly asleep sitting up when Phil finishes with the last of his secondaries. Carl blinks his eyes open as Phil gets up to wash the shampooing oil off his hands.

Carl gets up too, stretching both his arms and his wings. The massage has done the wings good. They feel less heavy than before, and Carl can see that Phil smoothed down all of the pin feathers coming in.

Phil comes back out of the bathroom. "I'll let you get to your nap now," he says.

Instead of showing him out the door, Carl blurts, "You can stay if you want."

Phil's eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

Carl can feel his face heating up again, but he soldiers on. "It's a little late for a nap, so I'm probably just gonna watch some TV. You can stay and watch too, if you want."

Phil hesitates. "You sure?"

"Yes. I wouldn't ask if I weren't."

"Okay then," Phil says. "I'll stay."


End file.
